Page 25 of Storm

Our dinners together have become more and more tense since he decided to walk around naked within our bedroom—only our bedroom. Mary would have a heart attack if she knew what he was packing under those pants. My heart is already damaged beyond repair, so the challenge intrigues me.

At the beginning, he was indifferent to my presence. Melek stayed on his side of the bed. He only dressed in the bathroom, and he gave me space—so much space that we barely exchanged two words with each other until he found me sobbing on the floor of the shower one evening.

It was those moments of soul-eclipsing sadness over my mam and Nix that brought him physically closer to me. He would hear my despair from rooms away, and he would come, scooping me up without a word and cradling me in his arms, returning to his chair in his home office, leaving me straddled on his lap as he worked. The thought that he cared enough to want to comfort me, even though we never spoke of it, snapped some wayward string within me, and soon, my depression was replaced with a need to be consumed by him—my enemy.

And I never thought of the consequences. I wanted to stop feeling like I was free-falling. I wanted to stop being Storm and, to my utmost abhorrence, decided being Alora was my way out.

So, with a little fight, I gave in to my husband.

I am still stubborn. Nothing has changed that, and I definitely am not asking him for it.

Removing my hand from underneath my dress, I hold my wet fingers up to him. “Is that enough of an invitation?”

The man practically vibrates, eyes dark with hunger, for more than his dinner. Melek’s nostrils flare as he pushes his chair back, a screech scuffing at the floorboards. He wants this. There is a giddy thrill that radiates through me at affecting the commander that can’t be touched. It is intoxicating. Terrifying. Standing, both his broad hands grip the ends of the table, eyeing me. Cutlery crashes as he clenches the table, a tremor creaking the wood, a relic of forgone times.

“NO.” The flash of longing is unmistakable. He needs this. And I know he is not fucking anyone else because he beats his cock each night in the shower with the door open for me to hear. He’s also started spending more and more time at the house instead of going into the city proper.

I knew it. Melek is desperate. He has to be.

And finally, I am giving in, and he says no.

I don’t fucking think so.

Taking the butter knife from the side plate, I stride towards my husband. Gaining proximity, the skirts of my dress abruptly fall back into place. The piercing of his gaze consumes me whole. I am damned seeing him dishevelled, my pussy soaked and needy, his dark brunette hair messy from his hands constantly working through it as he watched me sink my fingers into my heat at the dining room table.

I hold up the blunt knife before him. It won’t do any damage, but it will get the point across.

“Alora,” he growls under his breath.

I place the tip of the knife at his groin, trailing it up his stomach, stopping at his ribs. If only he weren’t wearing his work clothes. The hard muscles underneath are a much more alluring sight. “What if I don’t want to say it? What if I want you to take it?”

“NO.” The table cracks. I flinch at the sound. Never one to back down, I push my body into his side.

The door opens, and a gasp punctuates through the room.

“Sir?” Mary asks.

Unwilling to turn from Melek, I don’t see our housekeeper’s face as the butter knife pushes at the centre of his chest, under his heart.

The ball in the commander’s throat bobs up and down. “We’re just about finished here, Mary.” He dismisses her.

“Oh. I—Okay.” The door swings shut as her footsteps retreat.

“I’ll never admit that I want you.” I push the knife further, ripping his shirt. He doesn’t bat an eye at the foreign object digging into black material. “I would like to see what it takes for the lord commander of the Halo Army to snap.” He’s made me feel like a foreigner in my own skin. Making him feel the same way is the least I can do.

His jaw unlodges at that, air escaping his nostrils. “Wife, you have no idea who I am.” A shiver works its way through my core, Melek’s hand clasped over mine—the one holding the knife—and he digs it into his flesh so hard I feel it give.

The bastard stabbed himself with my butter knife!

My gaze flickers from his face to our joined hands, and my breathing becomes erratic.

“Look at me. NOW.” At his command, I freeze. The knife slips further in as he pushes. His head ducks down to graze my ear. “You underestimate my patience, wife. I would wait lifetimes for you.”

That lurches me out of my state. I step back, releasing my hold on the knife. It falls from our hands, solence striking the tip and splashing against the white cotton tablecloth, clattering to the floor.

When I look up, I find something I’ve never seen on my husband’s face before: feral abandon. And I run…

After I finish on the toilet, I hand him the stick, and together, we wait in silence. I grab my robe, coming back to find him staring down at the bathroom counter where the stick lies. I sidle up beside him, deciding to look up at him instead of the stick, which I already know the results of.